The Adventure of the Woolly Jumper
by Nikolai-Tesla
Summary: Sherlock finished struggling into the woolly jumper and looked at John rather sheepishly. The sleeves were a sight too short for his long arms and the fabric of the torso hung off his slight frame; John couldn't help but smile.


It was a cold day, unusually cold for London. The drizzle of the morning had developed into a full blown torrent and John Watson snuggled deeper into his woolly jumper, turning his coat collar up against the wind and the rain even as he fumbled with the lock on his door. The warm interior of the stairwell was a relief as he ascended, though it took him a while to shrug off the residual chill that seemed to hang over his shoulders like an exceptionally unhelpful and garish shock blanket.

The first thing he noticed upon returning from his girlfriend's house – _I have a girlfriend! Oh, lord, an _actual_ girlfriend!_ – was the pair of long, lanky legs extending over the edge of the sofa. He frowned, raising an eyebrow, and edged around to the front of the sofa, staring at the man occupying most of it. Sherlock Holmes was lying there, legs propped up, looking like an overgrown child enjoying the feel of blood rushing to his head due to hanging upside down. One elegant arm was flung over his face, the strong nose and sharp cheekbones buried in the crook of the elbow. The other arm dangled, fingertips brushing the floor, milky skin bearing – John checked – at least three nicotine patches.

'I didn't know we had a case on,' John said nonchalantly, as he was entirely accustomed to encountering his flatmate in strange positions.

Sherlock didn't move an inch or even react.

'Sherlock, what would you have done if I had been a burglar?' John cautiously took a step toward the man on the sofa. 'Sherlock, I'm serious. Sherlock?' He sighed. 'The silent treatment? Really? If you didn't want me to go to Sarah's, you should have said.'

When the other man still didn't budge, John started to worry a touch. Now that he thought about it, he didn't really like the look of Sherlock's colour and upon closer examination he noticed that he was trembling slightly. John's eyes widened when he pried Sherlock's arm from across his face and felt the deep chill of his skin. 'Sherlock, you're freezing!'

The other man attempted an indignant sigh at being disturbed but his breath caught in his throat and he coughed slightly. He cracked open one eye and glared at John, face drawn and visible eye bloodshot. 'John,' he said hoarsely before clearing his throat and wincing slightly before starting again. 'John, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't interrupt me with inane comments while I am thinking.'

'Thinking?' John repeated incredulously. 'It looked to me like you were doing a pretty good impression of a corpse. And what have you been doing? Why are you all wet?'

'It's raining.'

'Yes, I _had_ noticed. But I had the common sense to come in from the rain while it looks like you've been standing in it.'

'It was an experiment.'

John rolled his eyes. 'Sherlock, pretty soon your experiments might just get you killed.'

'Remember what I've said about exaggeration, John?'

'It's what separates us from the animals?'

'No, that's complex speech. It makes you sound like a fool.'

'Thanks, Sherlock. Thanks a lot.' But his sarcasm fell short as Sherlock rolled onto his side and John got his first good look at the man. His curls were wet and matted, his skin sallow and very nearly gray. His eyes, so normally vibrant and filled with manic energy, were bloodshot and ringed with dark circles.

'You look terrible,' John said bluntly, looking extremely nonplussed. 'And that is my professional opinion as a doctor.'

'Yes, John, your _opinion_. I'm fine,' Sherlock retorted, somehow managing to sound bored even as his tremors increased in ferocity.

'You're not fine! You're shaking. And why are you wearing those nicotine patches? Hypothermia and stimulants do not mix well.'

'I do not have hypothermia. One does _not_ get hypothermia in five degree weather. What kind of doctor are you, anyway?'

'A good one, remember? Come on, we've got to get you dry.'

Sherlock looked wary, as if worried John would come at him with a hairdryer like he was some sort of overgrown poodle, but eventually he raised himself into some semblance of an upright posture. He swayed dizzily when he sat up and was forced to close his eyes to stop his head from spinning.

John still had his doubts that Sherlock would comply and took advantage of his confusion, grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet. Sherlock had no choice but to lean into John's supporting arm, allowing himself to be steered in the direction of his bedroom.

'There,' John said once they had reached the bed, pushing Sherlock down onto it. 'Sit. Now stay. I'll be right back.'

Sherlock looked slightly bewildered – _Did_ John think he was an overgrown poodle, after all? – but remained seated on the bed, still shivering slightly.

He had just closed his eyes when he heard John returning downstairs.

'Here, put this on,' John demanded, tossing what felt like a large furry bear pelt into Sherlock's lap. He opened his eyes in confusion, staring down at the object.

'I _do_ have clothes, John. I don't need this p- is this a _jumper_?'

'It's one of my favourites,' John said proudly, grinning. 'I also have this one if you'd prefer.' He held up a red and black striped jumper. 'Or this one.' A charcoal v-neck.

When Sherlock made no move to get changed, still staring bemusedly at the jumper in his lap, John sighed and started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock's head snapped up and his eyes tracked uneasily across John's face. He looked extraordinarily uncomfortable with the situation. 'John, I-'

'Shut up, Sherlock. Just... shut up.'

Once the shirt was removed, John started to pull the jumper on over the other man's head.

'Really, John,' Sherlock said, voice slightly muffled by the wool. 'I'm not an infant.'

'So, prove it,' John retorted, smiling smugly. 'Dress yourself, then.'

Sherlock finished struggling into the woolly jumper and looked at John rather sheepishly. The sleeves were a sight too short for his long arms and the fabric of the torso hung off his slight frame; John couldn't help but smile. Sherlock may have looked silly, but at least he was warm.

'Good, Sherlock. Now get under the duvet.'

Sherlock grimaced but did as he was told. 'You're particularly bossy today,' he sniped.

'I'm a doctor, Sherlock, and you've forced my hand. You are a particularly dreadful patient. Now rest.'

John turned around and made to leave the room.

'John?' Sherlock called after him.

He stopped short, his hand on the doorframe, and suppressed a sigh. 'Yes, Sherlock?'

'Why do you have so many jumpers?'

'Why don't _you_ tell _me_, O Mighty Deducer,' he started sarcastically. But when he turned back to face the other man, Sherlock looked uncharacteristically small and pathetic in John's oversize jumper and he couldn't help but take pity on him. Nonetheless, he hesitated. 'I'd rather not tell you. It's somewhat embarrassing.'

Sherlock just stared at him eagerly, if a little tiredly.

'Oh, all right,' he conceded. 'I s'pose you'd somehow manage to figure it out anyway. All these jumpers are from... my gran.' He mumbled the last part as if hoping Sherlock might forget his curiosity.

'Oh, your gran. That explains a lot,' Sherlock said earnestly, nodding.

'Shut _up_, Sherlock. I know it sounds like sentimental tosh. But I don't get on with my family, 'cept for Harry when she's sober, so Gran's all I've got. Her jumpers... I dunno, make me feel _loved_. I don't expect you to understand.'

He glanced over at Sherlock, fully expecting the other man to snicker at him, but he was met with a serious expression. If he didn't know better, he would have said it was full of _longing_. 'I do understand,' Sherlock said quietly. 'Completely.'

John looked away quickly and cleared his throat awkwardly, but he could still feel Sherlock's gaze burning into him. 'Right,' he said hurriedly. 'You need rest.'

'Of course.' Sherlock fluttered a hand in acquiescence. 'And thank you, John. For the jumper.'

'You're welcome, Sherlock. Now go to bed.'

John smiled to himself as he went to close the door to Sherlock's room. Maybe there was hope for the man, after all. With John's help he might even master sensitivity, perhaps even caring. Pretty big feats for a self-proclaimed sociopath. John was wrapped up in thought, the door starting to click shut, when he heard two words drifting back from the depths of the room. They were ever so quiet, slightly hoarse, but completely unmistakeable and he couldn't help but grin.

'Granny's boy.'


End file.
